Into the Darkness
by Winter Violet
Summary: Uchiha Sasuke wakes up to find himself injured, alone, and in total darkness. Every decision has a consequence, and he must face what he has done. One shot.


**Into the Darkness**

He could see nothing when he woke: not the walls, not the ceiling, not even his hands when he pressed his palms against his burning eyes. His entire torso hurt, as did his head. He turned his body and tried to rise, feeling the cold stone floor scraping against his skin as he moved. He clenched his fists against the pain that seared through him. He forced in a shallow breath.

_Kabuto_. The name darted through his mind, a shadow in his still-hazy consciousness.

He raised himself first to all fours and then pushed himself to his feet, wavering where he stood, his hands gripping his knees for support. _Come on, Sasuke_.

"Kabuto," he breathed, not bothering to lift his head. His weak voice was barely audible in the chamber. He stared out into the darkness, but it was impenetrable, as black as his own useless eyes. His heart skipped, but he forced himself to breathe evenly. The air was heavy and damp against his skin, in his lungs.

_Open the door_.

He staggered forward, wrapping both arms carefully against his ribs. But one of the walls loomed up next to him sooner than he had expected, and his right shoulder collided with the stone. He shifted his weight quickly, extending one foot back to steady himself and grimacing against the sudden flare of pain lancing through his chest. He remained very still for a moment, not daring to move or breathe until the thrill of agony dulled back to the ache it had been.

After a moment, he drew in another, deeper breath and lifted his face to the wall. He set his jaw and straightened as much as he could, gathering both his energy and his pride.

"Kabuto," he called again. But his voice, though louder, still had no strength, and the last syllable died away in the darkness. He listened. The chamber remained silent.

Closing his eyes to ward off the dizzying sense of blindness, he reached out with his right hand until he felt stone scratch against his fingers. He stepped back to the wall, hunching against the cold, wet surface to take some of the burden of his weight off his increasingly unsteady legs.

He waited. He measured his painful breaths, counting slowly in his head. He tried not to think, not to let his thoughts take their terrifying shapes in the darkness.

No one came.

He turned to face the wall and pressed his right ear to the stone, bracing himself with one hand and keeping the other pressed to his body. He felt several strands of his dark hair scratch the side of his face in blood-stiffened little barbs. Only the quiet drone of the empty chamber resonated in the wall. No footsteps, no murmur of voices—nothing gave him hope that he was not utterly alone. He tried not to think what that meant, and in this effort he realized that he had lost count of his breaths. His chest moved in shallow, bird-like heaves, and he found his head spinning again. He crumpled against the wall, sliding to the floor, flinching as the rough edges bit into his exposed skin. He clenched his jaw, struggling to steady his erratic breathing by inhaling through his nose. He felt sick. He kept his eyes pressed shut, but still the shadows swirled in front of him, threatening to send him spiraling back into unconsciousness.

_Open the door!_ His eyes snapped open. He raised a desperate hand and slapped his palm against the wall. "_Kabuto_." The name came out in a strangled gasp. His fingers tightened into a fist, and he struck the hard surface three more times. "Kabuto!"

His voice, desperate now, foreign to his ears, rebounded sharply in the small space. He felt the heat of blood trickling down the edge of his hand. The darkness hunched as menacingly as ever around him, its cold breath pressing into the skin of his arms, his back, his chest, his face. He pressed closer to the wall, his eyes wide and unfocused.

He waited, his own silence designed to encourage some other sound—any other sound. His hand bled into the cloth of his leggings where he had pressed the injured flesh against his thigh. He kept waiting. His heartbeat, in time with his hushed, ragged breathing, gradually slowed to a more natural rhythm. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the stone. He tried not to think—not about anything.

Not the burning pain behind his eyes, in his chest. Not the cold seeping into his body from the stone chamber, numbing his fingers, his lips, his mind.

Not the darkness lapping in over his huddled form like a rising tide.

Not what he had done by coming here.

Not what he had left behind. _Who_ he had left behind, bleeding, alone.

_Naruto_.

Not that name!

He pushed his injured hand harder into his leg, willing the pain of the bruised and torn flesh to blind him to his own mind, his own guilt, his own fear.

Not whether they were ever coming back for him. Not whether he could ever go home—

_No!_

His fingers tightened into the cloth of his leggings, dug into the skin over his ribs, aggravating both wounds—external and internal—at once. His breath hitched in his lungs. But his eyes were open wide in the darkness, staring.

_No more weakness_. The pain in his chest seared up into his throat and down into his gut. He forced his fingers deeper into the grooves of his ribs, stressing each and every bone he could find that Orochimaru had broken when the man had beaten him. To test his strength. He coughed; blood mixed with the rush of air, trickled from his mouth. He tried to breathe normally as the heat warmed his lips, his chin. He felt shaky suddenly, feverish. The shadows moved in the room. He pressed harder.

_No more weakness_. His body lurched forward as a weakened bone snapped under the vice-like pressure of his fingers. His eyes widened as a white flash of pain cut through the dark field of his vision; he choked on his blood as another, more violent cough wracked his lungs.

He pried his stiff, trembling fingers away from his side and pressed both elbows to the floor as his body bent to the ground. He could hear the quick drip of blood from his mouth to the stone. His vision was black again. His thoughts blurred at the edges; his head made rough contact with the floor, splitting the skin over his left brow in one last flicker of pain.

_No more weakness_.


End file.
